Bloodless Silk
by Mr. Sobriquet
Summary: The Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games. And when Vin gets drawn, he's shocked, but he knows what he has to do. After all, it's already been done, sixty-seven times. But this is unlucky; as if being in the Hunger Games wasn't bad enough. For Vin is afraid of blood.


Prologue

"No. No!" Peeta slammed his fist on the table. "Coin's dead. We don't need to this anymore."

"This was never Coin's decision," retorted Johanna. "She was only there to preside over us. I vote that we have another Hunger Games." Katniss, Haymitch, and Enobaria all nodded.

"It's four to three, Peeta," said Haymitch.

Peeta sat back down, seething. Katniss only sat there, despondent. But then the door opened and a new person spoke.

"I vote no, too." Gasps greeted the voice. Enobaria looked particularly startled at the newcomer.

"You should be dead. I saw you die!"

The woman smiled wearily. "It's a long story."

"But then where have you been?" asked Johanna.

"Running. Surviving. Feeding my family."

Katniss looked at the woman. "For all this time?"

The woman nodded. "I've been able to survive, and help my family do so. It's strange, but once you've been in the arena once-,"

"Twice," corrected Johanna.

But the woman shook her head. "Once. I was never there for the second time."

Haymitch stared, but then shook his head. "How is that possible? You were clearly there?"

The woman sank into a chair. "It's a long story. But the war's over now, and we'll all be plagued by nightmares for a long, long time. I've been sworn to secrecy, but the person I swore it to probably wouldn't care if I told." She smiled sadly. "Personally, I think he wanted me too, deep inside."

And so the woman began to tell her story. And it was a long story. It began with the story of a boy, a boy had had the same twist of fate that everyone in the room had had. It was about a boy who was in the Hunger Games…

Chapter 1

My father used to call my eyes grass green. I don't know about that. My eyes were green, yes, but I had never seen grass before. Not real grass, in any case. The few patches here were yellowish black.

The sounds of machinery are so loud that they drown thought out. District Eight is the district of textiles, and the labor force is enormous. Children are expected to put in at least four hours of work after school.

I put in eight. As the eldest son, I'm supposed to support my family. After my father. But he's dead, and not the type of dead you see from the wearied laborers. He's deader then rock.

A bad metaphor, perhaps, but it's the best on I can come up with. Work doesn't give you a lot of time to think. On some days it's unbearably long. On other days it feels quick, another day of your life gone.

The sound of machines turning off brings forth a wave of relief so strong that it is practically palpable in the air. I get up from my station and walk out the door. I have nothing to take.

The road to home is long and bleak. Factory smoke billows into the air. I turn a corner, but not all the way. That's how small my house is. One turn and you miss it. The door is barely hinged to the wall, but my fingers are too sore to delicately open it. I slam it open and stagger through.

Rainier, my brother stares up with that startled look of that he has perfected in the face of bad news. And the probability of that is often. But his face visibly relaxes as he sees me.

I pat him on the head. "Hey, Rainie."

He smiles. "Hey, Vin." His face is round and pale, with slender eyebrows, black hair, and two mismatched eyes- one blue, one green. People think he's adorable, and they think that he looks like me. But they never suggest the two thoughts in the same sentence. My own looks are more elongated, and there are dark bags under my eyes. And my scowl. I don't think I have the muscles to smile. Maybe I did once, but by now they have atrophied.

I worry for Rainie. He's short for his age, and the day will come when he needs to work in the factories as well. Of course, many kids his age have already started working. But Rainie's made out of gentler stuff. Like my dad.

There was time when bringing up my father would reduce me to tears, or something close to. But that mental wound had closed up remarkably fast. I had learned to compartmentalize my feelings. Now my father's memory only brought up a little pain, but perfectly manageable.

The door slams open again, and my mother walks in. She has a prominent jaw and a strong personality. Her black hair is hidden under a dirty bandana. She stares at us, her silent mental check up on us. Blue eyes train on me. They used to be a vibrant color. Now they are dull.

Those bright blue eye days will never come back. Even if we weren't living in poverty I doubt they would. Those eyes only shined for one person; her husband, my father. My father, who could bring out the best in everything, whether it be people or the cloth designs that he made.

I like to think of myself as his favorite son and child. But as Rainie was five when he died four years ago, my little brother hardly had a chance in that department. I wonder if he remembers the time when we could afford thing. I was nine at the time, and the memory is faded. And Rainie is nine now. Had our father died today, would he have turned out like me?

These thoughts are purely speculative, and I would never have a chance to think of this during work. My mother nods at us. "You two okay?"

We give the affirmative. Before my father married her, she was already working in the factories. Going back had been a hard transition. But it was the type of thing my mom was built for.

Another thought occurs to me. My father was upper class. How did he marry my mother? Elopement, most definitely. Their meeting, I'm not so sure. But my mother won't tell. She puts in fourteen hours a day, and she goes to sleep immediately afterward. Sure enough, she's slumped on the ground, passed out.

Rainie has school tomorrow. And I have work. The cycle of sleep and work will never end.

I laugh nervously to myself. But nothing was so clearly set in the future. One turn could change your life. These thoughts would perpetuate into the next two days. And during this space of time, I'll probably have a lot of time to think.

Because in the next two days I won't sleep. No, I can't sleep. Because in two days, it will be the day of reaping. And two people will have their fate changed forever. It's the death lottery.

It's the Hunger Games.


End file.
